THE LOST CANTRELL – CHAPTER ONE
Copyright © 2022 by Shamiso M. Lezard – All Rights ReservedI have always considered myself a fairly confident person. Fairly. It’s not that I think overly highly of myself or anything. Not at all, actually. I just don’t care what people think of me. I don’t mind not being perfect. That’s a certain type of confidence, right? I’m not cocky, but I’m definitely not timid either. My confidence is balanced. Yeah, that’s the word that best describes me in a nutshell. Balanced. I’ve always had just enough confidence to get by in this cruel, cold, judgmental world…and, clearly, enough dramatics, too. That’s why, looking back on the events that led to my present circumstances, I have no idea why I was practically shaking as I stared up at the tall, grand building that was The Lost Cantrell, a top five-star hotel in Midtown, Manhattan. I was there to leave my resume for a Kitchen Staff position that had been advertised for its restaurant, L’Annette.
I had been perfectly fine in the taxi that I had taken from my apartment in Reign Hill, but as soon as I had stepped out of it at the hotel drop-off area, I was like a fish out of water. It always fascinated me how quickly things changed in a second. Emotions, relationships, situations…they all changed so quickly. Confidence could turn into plain nerves and anxiety, just like that. I inhaled deeply and released the breath slowly as I made my way closer to the hotel entrance doors. I could already smell the “rich people” air from my spot on the sidewalk. I fiddled with the sleek, low ponytail that I had tied my meticulously flat-ironed, long, black hair into, smoothing over non-existent stray strands. A side effect of having usually very, very unpredictable curly hair. Dropping my hand, I studied my approaching reflection in the glass door of the hotel, over-analyzing my dark-green turtleneck, tight black pencil skirt, and long black coat outfit combo. There was a security guard standing to the side of the doors, huge and dressed in a black suit. When he saw me approaching, he said, “Hello, ma’am.” I greeted him back with a small smile. He was a big guy, and yet he still managed to not draw too much attention to himself. I guessed that was a good quality for a security guard to have. As I stepped directly in front of the gold-framed doors they slid apart automatically, allowing me into the short corridor between the doors I had just stepped through and what looked like a second door entrance, surrounded by an enchanting glass encasement. The thick glass displays on both sides of the corridor held colorful, large artificial flowers, glittery ornaments, and little lights that cast an inviting glow over the area, reflecting off of the gold-tinted tiles. Trust The Lost Cantrell to have an entrance within an entrance, I thought as I made my way down the corridor toward the next entrance doors. As I took my last step toward them, about a foot away, they automatically slid open too, just like the first set of doors. It felt like a warm welcome for some reason. Like the hotel was saying, “Come on in.” But my warm and fuzzies were quickly forgotten when I finally laid my eyes on the magnificence of The Lost Cantrell’s lobby, all gold trimmings and crystal chandeliers and ivory leather sofas. It was splendid, and I was so mesmerised by it that it was only when I heard the bellhop’s greeting to my right that I stopped staring, with my mouth slightly agape, at my surroundings.
“Bonjour. I am Daniel. Welcome to The Lost Cantrell. Le Cantrell Perdue.” He said it all with a mild flourish, and I immediately caught on to the fact that he was probably of genuine French heritage and not just putting it on for the job. The Lost Cantrell was known to have its employees use French greetings when guests first arrived, but Daniel was very natural about it, and even his English words were laced with an obvious accent. With his neat navy-blue uniform, dark brown eyes, and dark hair, he looked young. Younger than my 24 years. On the same side that Daniel stood was the L’Annette Restaurant of The Lost Cantrell. Its sign wasn’t lit up and its glass doors were closed, but it still looked like fine-dining perfection. I tried not to stare at it, at the restaurant that I wanted to work in so badly, and forced myself to focus on Daniel. “Bonjour, Daniel. Uh, je m’appelle Ella.” I smiled at him as I said it, and I knew that my French accent and pronunciation was terrible, but he didn’t seem to mind. It was weird for me to be speaking French in the middle of New York but you know, when in Rome and all that. I turned my head back to the lobby space.
“Beautiful, n’est-ce pas?” Daniel said next to me.
When I turned back to him he had a smile on his face, and it calmed my nerves a little. “Yes, it is, Daniel. Very beautiful,” I replied.
“Would you like to book a room here at The Lost Cantrell, Miss Ella?” Daniel asked.
“Um, no. I’m here to apply for a job actually. The kitchen help job.” I reached into my slightly oversized handbag that carried my resume folder and pulled it out. “I’m here to drop off my resume.”
“Ah, I see. So we may be workmates soon, yes?”
He was so darn friendly that I couldn’t help but smile again. “I hope so, Daniel.”
“Well, you may make your way to Miss Bernadette at the reception desk for further inquiry and information,” he said as he held out his arm toward the reception area. It was clear he said that a lot, like some kind of rehearsed performance. I looked over to the reception area on my left where a young woman with long, curly auburn hair was stationed, looking down at something. I turned to head over there when I heard Daniel say, “Bonne chance, Miss Ella. Good luck.”
“Merci, Daniel, “I replied, then I made my way quickly toward the front desk. The young auburn-haired woman looked up at me with dark-green eyes as I approached her desk.
“Bonjour. Welcome to The Lost Cantrell. My name is Bernadette. How may I help you?” she said with a stiff smile. Her accent was American. Definitely American.
“Bonjour, Bernadette. My name is Ella-Cherie Silver. I’m here to drop off my resume for the kitchen help position that was advertised on the hotel website.”
“Oh. Okay,” she replied as she looked down at my resume in my hand, resting on the desk surface.
“Monsieur Cantrell, the owner of this hotel, reviews all applications and candidates himself. But he is busy at the moment. You can leave your resume with me, and I will be sure to let him know that you came in, and I will see to it that he receives it.” She smiled again. It was not quite as stiff as the last time but certainly not as pleasant as Daniel’s. I was hesitant. I hated leaving room for error. What if she didn’t give it to him? If he was ultimately in charge of picking his employees, then I wanted to make sure that he got it before the deadline. I couldn’t leave it in the hands of someone else, regardless of how efficient they seemed. If you want something done right then you better do it yourself, right? I was just about to politely let her know that I could come back at a later time when Mr. Cantrell was not as busy when her eyes suddenly cut to her left, and she smiled genuinely this time.
“Looks like you’ll be able to hand it to him yourself.”
I followed her eyes and saw a tall, slim man with salt and pepper hair, dressed in an impeccable suit. He was headed toward us, his strides long and strong. The huge lobby space gave me enough time to study him as he made his way to the front desk, an air of authority surrounding him. I was immediately intimidated, and all of the calmness that Daniel’s welcoming smile had brought to me dissolved under the stoic expression of The Lost Cantrell’s owner.
“Monsieur Cantrell, I’m so glad that you’re out of your office now,” Bernadette said cheerfully when Mr. Cantrell had reached us and looked over at her questioningly. “Your presence is needed here.”
And that was when Mr. Cantrell turned his dark brown eyes on me, and I felt instantly smaller. Literally. I am not a short woman. Not by any standard. I am five feet seven inches. Barefoot. In the heels that I was wearing, I was about a solid five feet eleven. Yet there I was, staring up at Mr. Cantrell, feeling completely out of my depth. I guessed that he was way over six feet tall. Way over. He looked down his nose at me with a bored, blank expression, and it scared the heck out of me. Why did it scare me? Here’s why: There was no way he could have known what I was there for. Bernadette had not told him that I was there, obviously for fear of interrupting the boss while he was busy. For all he knew, I was an inquiring potential guest, and yet the way he was looking at me, neutral and uninterested, was hardly befitting of what I would expect the owner of a supposed hospitality establishment to be like. So, in that moment, I concluded that that was either Monsieur Cantrell’s natural demeanour around everyone, including guests, or he was a mind reader and already knew that I was nothing but a lowly job-seeker. Either way, it did not bode well.
“Bonjour. I am Monsieur Hector Cantrell, the owner of Le Cantrell Perdue. How may I assist you?”
He had more of an English accent, which surprised me. I thought he would be definitively French. I cleared my throat and responded. “Bonjour, Monsieur Cantrell. My name is Ella-Cherie Silver. I am here to apply for the kitchen help position. I have my resume right here.” I lifted the folder containing my resume off the desk surface slightly to draw his attention to it. He glanced at the folder briefly and then back to my face.
“Miss Silver,” he said slowly before continuing on, “we use an online application system for the recruitment process here at The Lost Cantrell, so as to limit unnecessary movement in and out of the establishment. Candidates need not come in unless they are called in for an interview. You must use the online application form provided on the website.” He turned a look of mild irritation toward Bernadette as he said, “Bernadette should have informed you of that as soon as you made your inquiry.”
I hoped that she wouldn’t be in trouble because of me, but when I looked over at her, she was more than just a little unbothered by his words. In fact, she even shrugged slightly as she said, “She’s already here. Doesn’t make sense to send her away,” and went back to staring down at her computer screen.
I noticed Monsieur Cantrell’s eye twitch a little as he watched Bernadette return to her screen without a word of apology at all. Then he turned back to me with a sigh, took my resume folder from my light grasp, opened it up, and began scanning over it. Relief washed over me. This was good. At least he was looking at it. It felt like forever before he finally looked back at me, and I held my breath, waiting anxiously for his words. Preferably an invitation for an interview.
“Thank you for your interest in the position, Miss Silver, but it appears you are overqualified. I cannot move forward with your application,” he stated plainly. Then he closed the folder and held it out to me. I stared at him. Was he serious?
“Overqualified?” I repeated in question.
“Yes.” One word. Not enough.
“I don’t understand.” I blinked up at him, genuinely confused.
When Monsieur Cantrell realized that I hadn’t taken my resume out of his hand yet, and quite frankly I had no intention to, he put it down on the desk and stood even straighter, which was something I would not have thought possible. “Let me explain, then,” he said. “This job is for kitchen help. The general job description of kitchen help here is to assist our head chef in whatever preparation he needs done before meals are served, as well as to clean up the tables and kitchen after serving. This includes tasks such as washing the dishes, sweeping, peeling and chopping of vegetables, and so on.” He looked at me pointedly then, as if he had said something that should have explained his rejection of my application. I simply blinked at him again, which made him release another sigh. “You are a qualified chef, Miss Silver. A graduate of The Crest Institute of Culinary Arts, according to your resume. This is not a job for a chef. You are overqualified.”
That explained it. Never had I thought that graduating from one of the top culinary institutes in New York would be a disadvantage to me. The Crest Institute of Culinary Arts had a good name. It made the list of top Culinary Arts Schools internationally every year, without fail. That’s why I had worked hard to get into it. I thought that I would graduate and get a good job at a top restaurant immediately after, but that wasn’t the case. New York was competitive. Sure, there were lots of job opportunities in smaller restaurants, diners, and cafes. But I didn’t go to culinary arts school for four years and obtain a Bachelor in Culinary Arts for that. No. I wanted a job in a Michelin star restaurant. Just like the one-Michelin-star L’Annette Restaurant at The Lost Cantrell. But to eventually get a top chef or sous-chef job, you needed experience and to get experience, you needed a job in a top restaurant. See the problem? I needed a job in an upmarket, high star restaurant. There was no shortage of qualified chefs looking for that kind of job too, though. Like I said: competitive. So the whole situation was new to me. In most cases when I would apply to a job at a top restaurant or hotel, I would be one of the least qualified applicants due to my lack of relevant experience. So hearing the term “over-qualified” being used on me in a place as grand as The Lost Cantrell was obviously surprising, at the very least. I didn’t know whether to pat myself on the back or cry at the irony of it all.
“I don’t mind washing dishes, Monsieur Cantrell. I really don’t. And wouldn’t it be to the hotel’s advantage, anyway, to have a qualified chef at the wage of general kitchen help?” I pointed out. I was trying hard to convince him to at least give me an interview.
He looked at me and lowered his chin a little. “Be that as it may, it still would not sit well with me.” Then his eyes softened ever so slightly as he said, “You may think that you are content with general kitchen work now, but I assure you, Miss Silver, that this blind enthusiasm will not last long. Ambition is a powerful force, and it does not allow for contentment.” Then he lifted his chin up again and said the words that were in line with the general response that I had gotten from most of my applications to top establishments. “Good luck with your future endeavors, and I hope you find a position more suited to you. Good day, Miss Silver.”
He turned away from me and made his way around the semi-circle shaped front desk and entered behind it to stand next to Bernadette. He had basically dismissed me. He was going about his business, while I stood there looking like a nerd trying to get in with the “cool” crowd…and failing of course. I had been rejected. Again. Not again. Not again, I thought. I stared at my resume folder that Monsieur Cantrell had left on the desk surface, and I shook my head lightly, my disappointment slowly turning into determination and a refusal to accept yet another rejection. Then I looked up at him again, and he was speaking to Bernadette as if I wasn’t even there. No. Not this time. Not that easily.
I let out a light exhale and began speaking before my nerves had any chance of interfering with my newfound courage. “I’ll prove myself,” I said softly, but clearly loud enough that Monsieur Cantrell and Bernadette heard me, because they both looked up, as if they were surprised that I was still standing there. “I’ll prove myself,” I repeated, a little louder.
“Miss Silver…” Monsieur Cantrell began, and I knew where it was going.
“With all due respect, Monsieur Cantrell,” I cut him off quickly, watching as his head snapped back ever so slightly at my interruption, “we both know that working here as kitchen help is just as good as working at a no-star restaurant as a chef. The Lost Cantrell is a big deal. So I’m willing to work my way up.” I looked him in the eyes and added some grit to my voice so I didn’t sound whiney when I said, “But I have to start somewhere, sir. And there’s no better start than here for me. All I’m asking for is a shot at an interview.” Then to maintain my respectfulness, I added, “Sir.”
Bernadette turned her head slowly to look at Monsieur Cantrell with her eyebrows raised. I got the distinct feeling that no one had ever interrupted him before, let alone argued a point against him. Especially not someone who was looking for a job. He stared at me with his mouth in a thin line and his expression skeptical. Then he turned that same skeptical eye to Bernadette, who shrugged again and said, “I like her.”
My nerves were all over the place again, and I kept looking back and forth between the two of them. Bernadette liking me didn’t seem like a significant enough factor. However, I didn’t have enough time to dwell on it because Monsieur Cantrell suddenly snatched up my resume from the desk, turned away, and made his way out from behind the reception area, heading back in the direction he came from before, without a word. I stared off after him, too surprised to say anything. Until I finally heard Bernadette’s voice say, “You asked for an interview, right?” I blinked at her, still surprised by Monsieur Cantrell’s sudden departure. “He wants you to follow him,” Bernadette said slowly, catching on to my confusion.
“Oh, right!” I exclaimed, already hurrying off in the same direction that I had seen Monsieur Cantrell head off in, but I just about managed to turn around and call out, “Thank you!” to Bernadette, who simply smiled in return. I followed Monsieur Cantrell through a door that read Monsieur Cantrell in gold lettering. No question as to who the office belongs to. He closed the door behind me, then went to stand behind the large desk that was toward the back wall. It was made of the same beautiful deep, dark wood that the front reception desk was made of, but the rest of his office was certainly not as warm and inviting as The Lost Cantrell’s lobby. It was a fairly large office, with a brown leather double sofa to the far right of the desk on the same wall side as the office entrance door, and rows of high windows along two of the walls: one row on the back wall behind the desk; and the other row on the wall to the left of the desk. They allowed for ventilation without letting people outside see into the office. There was also a large, fully stocked bookshelf in the corner but, besides that, the office was plain. No photos or paintings or anything. Just plain. It surprised me because Monsieur Cantrell obviously must have had excellent taste in décor if he had anything to do with the lobby design. It did not make sense for his office to look that way. All of the windows in his office were open, letting in the cold late-March air. So yeah, his office was also cold. Plain and cold. Just plain cold.
“Take a seat, Miss Silver,” he said, still standing behind his desk, with my resume resting on top of the shiny wood surface.
I sat down in the chair opposite him on the other side of the desk and waited while he stayed standing and looked over my resume again. Then he finally took his own seat and looked straight at me with disinterested eyes. “Since you are already here, I have decided to conduct your interview now.”
“Thank you, sir,” I responded, after clearing my throat.
He pulled out a clipboard from his desk drawer, as well as one red ink and one black ink pen. He scribbled something on the top sheet of paper in black ink and then looked up at me again. “Let’s begin,” he said, completely neutral. I saw him flick his wrist quickly over the paper as he wrote…in red ink this time. I assumed that the red ink was for negatives. I already have one negative before the interview has even started. That must be a record. “We have already established that you cannot follow simple instructions, otherwise you would not be here right now. So, I will leave out the question as to how well you can.” He glanced at me briefly when he said this, and I had no response because, technically, he was not 100 percent wrong. I figured that was what the excess amount of red ink was all about. Not great, but I can salvage this. I looked directly at him and sat up a little straighter in the chair, determined to impress Monsieur Cantrell with my responses. And by the end of the interview, I was sure that I had. I managed to answer the rest of the questions smoothly and confidently, and Monsieur Cantrell seemed to have run out of snide, snarky comments.
“Thank you for your time, Miss Silver. We will be in touch to inform you of the result of your interview. Please note that I discuss all candidates with our Head Chef before any decision is made, as he plays a major part in the decision-making for hiring kitchen staff. Good day,” he said, as he stood from his chair and held out his hand to me. Ever the professional.
I smiled at him politely as I took his hand, shook it, and said, “Thank you, sir. Good day to you, too.”
Then he walked over to the door, opening it to indicate that we were totally done, and I exited his office feeling way more calm and collected than I had barely twenty minutes before. Bernadette was no longer at the front desk when I looked over, but Daniel was still at his post, and as I approached him, heading for the hotel doors, he cheerfully said, “See you soon.”
All I could say, because it was the only thing that I knew for certain, was the same thing that I had said to him earlier, “I hope so, Daniel. I hope so.” Daniel nodded his understanding, then I made my way out of the beautiful Lost Cantrell, praying for just a shot at the opportunity to work there.
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